Oh, the wild black swans fly westward still, <br />While the sun goes down in glory— <br />And away o’er lonely plain and hill <br />Still runs the same old story: <br />The sheoaks sigh it all day long— <br />It is safe in the Big Scrub’s keeping— <br />’Tis the butcher-birds’ and the bell-birds’ song <br />In the gum where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping— <br />(It is heard in the chat of the soldier-birds <br />O’er the grave where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping). <br />Ah! the Bushmen knew not his name or land, <br />Or the shame that had sent him here— <br />But the Bushmen knew by the dead man’s hand <br />That his past life lay not near. <br />The law of the land might have watched for him, <br />Or a sweetheart, wife, or mother; <br />But they bared their heads, and their eyes were dim, <br />For he might have been a brother! <br />(Ah! the death he died brought him near to them, <br />For he might have been a brother.) <br /> <br />Oh, the wild black swans to the westward fade, <br />And the sunset burns to ashes, <br />And three times bright on an eastern range <br />The light of a big star flashes, <br />Like a signal sent to a distant strand <br />Where a dead man’s love sits weeping. <br />And the night comes grand to the Great Lone Land <br />O’er the grave where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping, <br />And the big white stars in their clusters blaze <br />O’er the Bush where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sacred-to-the-memory-of-unknown/
